13: Reunion
by Math Girl
Summary: Another bit of the past, from Gordon's perspective, this time, relating how he finally came home. Alternate universe, and building on the other twelve stories.
1. Chapter 1: Meeting

**REUNION**

_Craving your kind indulgence, it is alternate universe story, the first chapter of how Gordon came home._

1

About 3:45 AM it was, Island time, or whatever they called it thereabouts. He was nearly a week into his new "home" and, though he still hadn't exactly settled in, Gordon felt the need to get back to his training regimen.

There were problems; the pools were too warm, and too small, the ocean much wilder than any he'd experienced in far-off Europe. But he took a certain grim comfort in dragging himself out of bed at 3:30 even so, getting dressed in the dark, scrounging a bit of breakfast, then swimming laps till he was ready to drop. Especially now, when so much else had changed...

In the gleaming kitchen (he'd memorized a stealthy side route through the spacious, inlaid and ornamented mansion), Gordon very cautiously fished a number of items from the walk-in refrigerator and larders. Foreign stuff, largely. The boy consciously avoided food brands he recognized, not wishing to look down at a plate and wonder why it wasn't being served by his mum.

There was just moonlight enough to see by, so he kept the overhead lights off. Didn't want to wake the new family, or their servant. All of this stealth wasn't occasioned by the behavior of his hosts- they'd been exceedingly, almost _overwhelmingly_, kind- but by his own discomfort. He still felt like a wretched poor relation, miserably carrying on where he'd rather not be.

Trying for invisibility, he didn't use any noisy appliances, but someone noticed, anyway. He was just clearing up the last traces of his cold, furtive breakfast, when Gordon got the very strong, neck-prickled feeling that he was being observed.

He turned, less casually than he would have liked, and spotted the watcher, who stood framed in one of the nearer dining room doors. Though he hadn't met him before, Gordon knew him at once. Tall, blond, slender, and as stiff as his formal portrait. Another Tracy brother; the second one.

Suddenly nervous, Gordon made a last-ditch, red-faced effort to tidy up.

"Sorry," he mumbled, righting a spilt cereal box, "...didn' mean t'..., I jus' thought I'd get something f'r myself, without rousin' th' house."

The young man came further into the kitchen, blue-violet gaze fixed and intent.

"Not a problem," he replied quietly. "There's more than enough." Then, as if trying out a painfully unfamiliar word, "Gordon...?"

The 14-year-old boy, relocated and confused, but _always_ polite, wiped his hands upon his shirt, then hastily extended the right, saying,

" 'Course; sorry..., Gordon Tracy."

They shook hands.

"I'm your brother, John."

The reaction was very different, this time. No rough, pummeling hugs, or painfully knuckled scalp. Just a firm handshake, and brief shoulder clasp. Gordon allowed himself to relax a little.

"How's it been going?" His brand new (cousin, he'd have said, a week ago; brother, now) acquaintance asked, leaning back against the kitchen counter. Gordon gave him a cautious look. He'd been much talked at, these past few days, joyfully "filled in", but very little listened to. He had to consider a bit, before replying.

"It's been... well..., there's... I'm certainly grateful, f'r all th' welcoming, and..."

John cocked a slim eyebrow.

"That bad?"

All at once, something broke inside him like a dam. _'Get along, Luv,'_ she'd whispered, _'Try t' fit in, no matter what. I need t' know that you'll be all right...,' _But the raw wound of being torn away from everything he'd ever known simply hurt too much to stay decently covered. Hazel eyes drilling the tiled floor, hands white-knuckle taut on the table's edge, Gordon raged quietly,

"What if I didn't miss anythin'? What if I was happy? I _have _a life! _And_ a mum... or I did, anyhow."

Three months later, he still had trouble recalling that she'd gone. Nothing left; not even hospital visits. More damn stuff got knocked over, as Gordon quit trying to force words past the painful lump of unshed tears clogging his chest.

John was silent for a moment. Then he turned and crossed the kitchen to the big, chrome refrigerator. In the warm amber glow of appliance light, he looked less ghostly pale and insubstantial; more like the rock-solid Scott and Virgil. Not that there was much time for such comparisons.

Finding what he wanted a moment later, John returned with two dark brown bottles, one of which he tossed at Gordon, saying,

"It's five o'clock, somewhere. And further along your world-line, you're 21."

Gordon squinted at the silvery label, turning it to catch the wan moonlight. American-style lager, of the sort Europeans used to wean their children. John opened his own bottle, then Gordon's, with his fist and the table's edge. Then, gazing at his new-found brother with a direct, amethyst stare, he said,

"It's been awhile. So... fill me in. What's happened?"

Gordon hesitated. He'd thought it wiser to say as little as possible about what he'd left behind. He was supposed to fit back into _their _lives, after all, not the reverse.

"Why 're you askin'?"

John shrugged.

"Either I'm interested, or I'm pretending to be. Does it matter? Either way, I'm listening."

Maybe the _'who gives a shit?' _tone should have made him angry, but Gordon had the odd feeling that John was there because he very much wanted to be; that he'd rushed back, from someplace quite far, just to meet with Gordon privately, and on his own terms.

So, bit by bit, one hesitant word at a time, he sketched the past for his silent brother. The silver window-square of moonlight slid clear across the floor and halfway up the wall, was replaced by pearly-wet, twittering dawn, before he'd talked himself out. He ended on the stubborn and fretful note that,

"Sometimes, late last night, f'r instance, there are noises. Like a bloody damn train wreck, and everyone just ignores them, acts like I've gone three stops past Barking if I even mention I've heard somethin'!"

John shook his head briefly, a muscle in his left cheek twitching slightly.

"You're not crazy. There _are _occasional loud, um... _events_."

Somewhat mollified, but still mulish, Gordon persisted,

"What th' hell are they doin', then? Launchin' rockets?"

"It's not my place to say," John replied calmly. "But, I can tell you this; when he," (a swift head jerk, in the direction of Jeff's office) "...gets around to explaining, I think you'll be very proud to be a part of what's going on."

Gordon's expression must have echoed some angry and turbulent ocean of dissatisfaction, because John added,

"I'll make you a promise: give it three days. If he doesn't completely explain things in that time frame, I will. Deal?"

Gordon nodded, and they shook on it. John released his hand, then turned very still for an instant. Very inward. When he spoke again, it was to say, in a barely audible voice,

"I know things have been chaotic, but give them... _us_... a chance, please. You may not remember us, Gordon, but we never forgot you. They're trying to make thirteen years just disappear, and they don't realize yet, that they can't. I'll talk to them."

Gordon gave his new brother a slightly lop-sided smile, and allowed himself to wonder, for the first time, what it might have been like, to grow up with the "American Cousins". Maybe, after all, he could find a place here.

"Right," he said. "Thanks, John."


	2. Chapter 2: Father and Son

2

_A rough first encounter._

He hadn't had to leave Europeimmediately after the funeral. Already well accustomed to dorm life, Gordon was able to stay in Madrid until the end of the summer swim season.

One Tuesday evening, after an exhausting series of kick sets, but before the warm-down, he got summoned over the intercom, to the coaches' office. The men's swim team weren't the only lot who practiced at this complex, nor was Kevin McMahon the only coach. There were divers, water polo players, the girls' team, and the synchronized swimmers to be scheduled around. Big as the European Union's Natatorium was, the various teams and their coaches were still packed in, cheek by jowl.

Gordon was a little surprised, then, that precious training time would be wasted on some sort of conference. Hauling himself out of the east pool and into a fluorescent-lit babble of shouts and splashing and shrill whistles, Gordon glanced over at his best friend, Royce. The other boy was two years older, of Jamaican extraction, and a full head taller.

"Dunno, Mate," he said, in response to Gordon's questioning look. "Could be ee's decided t' switch y' back t' butterfly. 'Ang on a bit, I'll come along."

Gordon waited, hoping that an assignment change was, indeed, McMahon's purpose. The other possibility, that the murky legal custody issues he'd suddenly landed in had finally resolved themselves, didn't weigh as heavily as his dread of being cut from the team.

A hasty towel-off and brisk walk later, they'd reached the office. McMahon stood by the door, arms akimbo, the steel whistle that hung about his neck flashing with each agitated posture-shift. Bristling grey hair, permanent scowl and fireplug build; that was Coach McMahon.

Jerking a thumb at the crowded pool deck, he gave Royce a flinty stare, snapping,

"Go on with you, Fellows. Back t' work. Y' ve not turned in a decent IM time, yet, y' lazy damn slacker. Now, move y'r arse before I drop it t' the lassies' squad."

"Yessir. Sorry, Coach." Royce gave Gordon an apologetic shrug, then left again. They'd talk the matter through, later.

The younger boy continued forward, praying hard that McMahon would be equally loud and irascible with him. When their coach became polite, the news was bad.

McMahon lifted a hand, his dour expression shifting about, as though he were trying to resettle it into something less juttingly aggressive.

"Someone t' see you, Lad. In th' office. One o' them relatives o' yours, from the States." He hooked his stubby thumbs through his over-stressed belt, while Gordon waited, feeling suddenly cold.

"Ee's summat t' say t' you..., but before y' go in... Well, I've known George Casey, out in California, f'r long enough t' have some influence, if y'r interested in swimmin' f'r the US. If not, th' commute ain't beyond a committed team member. I'll keep y' on th' roster, Lad, till y' ve decided."

"Yes, Sir," Gordon responded numbly. "Thank you, Sir."

McMahon nodded once.

"Right. In with y' then, Tracy, and good luck. I might be just outside th' door f'r awhile, adjustin' the rotation schedule."

He appreciated the thought, or would have, if he hadn't been so damn nervous. With a final nod to his coach, the red-haired boy put a hand to the door knob, and went on in.

A man stood in the cluttered office, making it seem somehow shabby and cramped with his tall, expensively dressed and perfectly groomed presence. He had grey hair, brown eyes, and an angular face. His dark blue suit and fine leather shoes exuded the sort of casual wealth that Gordon associated with fox hunts and blooded royalty. Ill at ease, and hard-put to conceal it, Gordon began gamely enough,

"How d' you do, Sir. I'm..."

"Gordon. I know." The tall man cut in, shaking his rather hesitantly proffered hand. "I'm Jeff Tracy, your father."

However the older man thought he'd take such an outrageous statement, he was terribly, _disastrously_, wrong. A hot, angry flush coursed clear through the boy, causing his heart to pound, his fists to clench, and his breath to come in rapid, shallow gusts.

"My dad was Joe Tracy," Gordoninformed him, staring the man down, "My mum was faithful t' his memory all her life, and you're a damn liar if you're suggestin' any different!"

What the man said next only worsened matters.

"You've been misinformed, Gordon, which is mostly my fault. Kathleen Tracy raised you, but she wasn't your mother. Luci..."

Gordon jerked away from the hard hand that Jeff had clamped on his shoulder.

"_You're bloody mental, an' I've heard enough of this rubbish!"_

He started for the door, only to be whipped around again and shoved into a chair by Jeff, whose towering rage seemed to quite fill the little office.

"Sit your ass down, and pay attention!"

Jeff raked a hand through his iron-grey hair, calming himself with a visible effort.

"Maybe I've mishandled this," he began again, voice low and hoarse. "Lord knows I've screwed up before, starting with the news of your conception. You were a surprise to begin with, and your mother had her work cut out, making me happy about it. Then I fumbled the ball again, in Geneva, after the accident. Should've brought you home then and there, but... I guess I wasn't man enough to break another heart."

Gordon opened his mouth again, making as if to stand up. Jeff leveled a forefinger at his chest.

"I said, shut up, Gordon. I'm pretty sure I can find some duct tape, if I really need to!"

They crossed stares again, and it was Gordon who finally looked away. Jeff continued, seeming at once angry, and desperate to explain.

"I let Kathy have you, and I let my family think you'd vanished. God can judge me for it, in His own time, but I'll be damned if I'm going to take it from you!"

Gordon so very badly wanted it to be a lie. But his mother, pale and fragile in her hospital bed, her beautiful copper hair no more than a few brittle wisps, had said,

'_I'm so sorry, Love. There's somethin' I must tell you... but I can't stand f'r you t' hate me. Jus'... please, when they come back f'r you... listen, and don't blame me too much. You and Joe were my life.'_

Gordon hadn't understood, then. Now, he did, a little; but he still couldn't bring himself to hate her, any more than he could disobey her final wishes. Jeff went on, sounding like a man who'd long ago resigned himself to emptiness and loss.

"This time, I'm going to do the right thing, whatever the cost."

Then, he did something that Gordon found totally inexplicable. Clearing his throat a bit, he added,

"I've brought you a few supplies, for the trip home. Didn't know what you already have, or what you might need, but it's a long flight, so I put something together."

From an airport gift bag on McMahon's desk, he quietly pulled out a stupid blue teddy bear. Like Gordon was a baby, or something, he set the toy on the arm of the chair.

Too upset to be reasonable, or even to _try _understanding the gesture, Gordon back-handed the inane little thing. It flew across the office, landing upside-down against the far wall.

Jeff stared at the teddy bear, recalling its counterparts in a hospital garbage can, and a coffin. Then he took a deep breath, squared his broad shoulders, and said,

"I've got some paperwork to take care of, at the American Embassy. We'll be flying out in two hours. Pack your things, and be ready to go."

And with that, Jeff Tracy left his son.


	3. Chapter 3: A Long Flight

3

_A bit of a reconciliation._

Royce caught up with him out back, by one of several landscaped ponds in lower Vallekas, not so much skipping stones, as attacking the water. The warm, golden light was fading fast, and so were his hopes for a sudden, brilliant notion.

"What's it t' be, then?" Royce inquired, stooping for a smooth rock of his own. It flicked across the pond like a mayfly, skipping out of sight in the gathering dusk.

"It appears I'm leaving," Gordon responded, expressionlessly, barely audible over distant car horns and chatter.

"Where?"

The question was quiet. The answer, still more so.

"America."

Eyes on the course of his latest stone, Royce probed further.

"The cousins?"

Gordon simply nodded, hands deep in the pockets of his blue-and-gold team jacket. Summer days in Madrid could be gaspingly warm, but the plateau was high enough that temperatures often plummeted by night. Best to be prepared.

"Well... you're sixteen in two years, Mate; old enough t' legally emancipate y'rself," Royce ventured, "...and then y' can always come stay with us. Mum's only question, if y' turned up on th' stoop one day, would be, _'what kept ya?' _Till then, we c'n call, right?"

"Right."

Two years. All he had to do was keep his head down, and get along for two years. Not impossible, surely. In the meantime, though...

His name was called over the intercom, wafting faint and musical through the baking-hot air. Gordon picked up his bag and slung the strap across his left shoulder.

"Be seein' you, then."

"See ya, Mate. Call us when y' get there, eh?"

"I will. Promise."

The flight _was _long, and very quiet. Gordon said little, although he wanted to ask this sudden father of his a few pointed questions. Jeff had retreated into the safe shell of piloting, though, eyes on his instruments, attention wholly focused on readouts, airnav beacons and comm chatter.

Gordon stared out the window for a few hours. Then,growing bored, and lonesome, he made the smallest of peace gestures. Inside his duffle was the gift bag Jeff had brought him. There was a novel in it, among other things, a techno-thriller about sabotage on the Moon Station. Gordon quietly fetched it out, and began to read.

"Starts a little slow," Jeff said, around five hundred miles later, finally breaking the silence, "but the action really picks up in chapter five."

Gordon looked over.

"Glad t' hear there's a payoff," he replied, " 'cause the first part's a bit of a slog."

Jeff smiled slightly.

"He's written dozens of novels. I can suggest a few others, if you find that you like his style."

"Thank you, Sir."

There was peace between them, of sorts, but too soap-bubble fragile to tolerate anything so serrated as a question. Unless...

"Where, um... where is it that we're goin', exactly?"

"Kanaho. It's a private island in the south Pacific. I got a fire-sale deal on it, awhile ago, and the press have been calling it 'Tracy Island' ever since. Former atomic testing site, but nothing with two heads has turned up in years."

Then, as Gordon's eyes widened,

"Sorry; bad joke. Sorry about a lot of things."

Gordon utterly failed to think of a clever response. He wanted to learn more, but deemed it wiser to keep the man at the stick in a good mood, something about depression and jet aircraft not seeming a healthy combination. Well, he supposed he had two years to learn what had happened, and why.

They were flying toward midnight, crossing time zones and gaining a day in the process. At some point, worn and sore, Gordon fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4: The Island

4

_Meeting the brothers:_

Scott Tracy expertly guided Virgil's green humvee along the rutted, bumpy path from the high side of the island, to the airstrip. He was behind schedule, having had to stop three times to clear storm wrack from the switch-backed trail, and, frankly... not exactly hurrying, either.

He made the final hairpin turn, bringing the green-draped volcano from his left side, back over to the right. The noise and smell of the sea grew stronger. Just beyond the airstrip it lay, cresting and smashing in long, rolling breakers against the cave-pocked cliff. The thrumming noise it made sucking back out again had always struck him as weird. 'Dissonant', Virgil called it.

The closer he got to the airstrip, the surlier Scott became.

'_I'll be arriving around 11:15 AM, local time' _his father had radioed, _'...with your brother.'_

Inwardly, Scott had groaned, while doing his best to keep a professional, "Sir! Yes, Sir!" look on his face. Surely, summer school hadn't let out _already?_ And what had become of the 'Year-round Schools' initiative? Bottom line: Alan was back. _Early._

Sighing gustily, he pulled the humvee into a parking space outlined in chunks of lava rock, put it in neutral, and cut off the engine. He sat there a moment with the windows open, drumming on the steering wheel, as a breeze from the ocean fanned his dark hair and threatened to carry away the folded shirt that rested beside him on the passenger seat.

(Scott never liked to appear wrinkled, or sloppy. On the way down, he'd worn a pair of pressed shorts, a sleeveless tee, and leather dock-siders, saving the shirt for the last minute.)

The plane appeared, at last; a faintly droning speck in a sky so deep and pure a blue, it was nearly hypnotic. Scott got out of the vehicle, donning his shirt, and his game face. _Showtime._

The corporate jet skimmed in lightly enough, but Scott noticed that it bounced three times on touch down. He shook his head a bit, thinking that, _A:_ his father was tired, and _B:_ _he _could have done it better. Though, with Alan on board, all bets were off.

He strode forward as the jet taxied to a halt, engine noise dropping from scream to grumble. A few minutes later, a face appeared in one of the windows. Scott caught a swift flash of coppery-auburn, and scowled. If that little bastard had dyed his hair red, again...! Last time, he and Virgil had contented themselves with merely shaving it all off, eyebrows included. This time...

_In the jet:_

The hand on his shoulder shook him awake.

"Up, Gordon. We're nearly there."

His eyes opened, and there followed a few moments of confusion, until the pieces fell back into place; the funeral, Jeff, the flight... and the sickening knowledge that he was a long, long way from home. The engines' pitch deepened as Gordon fumbled out of his seat straps. Beneath his feet, the vibration and slant were altered, as well. The sun was up and blazing, sharp as a dagger through deep-set windows of hardened plexiglass.

He made his way back toward the plane's small head, and washed up a bit. Nothing he could do about the slept-in clothes, but at least he could make himself a bit more presentable.

Jeff called him forward again before final approach. No walking around during landing, even on private jets. The island hove into view; small, at first, then growing to fill the tilting windscreen with its jagged peak and dense greenery. They curved around, shot back out over the ocean, banked again, and lined up with the runway. Gordon's hands tightened on the arm rests (not that he was scared, or anything) as they dove, flared up, and bounced on in. He bit back the urge to congratulate "Captain Kangaroo" on the smoothness of his landing, thinking that there might just be duct tape aboard, somewhere. Finally, they came to a halt. He'd have asked about meeting the rest of the family, but Jeff was busy shutting down the plane and filling out his flight log, which took awhile.

For something to do, Gordon peered out a side window while the pilot completed his business up front, then visited the head. Another man was stalking across the tarmac toward the plane. He had dark, neatly cut hair, and wore a casual outfit of Khaki shorts, white shirt and pilot-style, mirrored sunglasses. Gordon thought he looked irritated, and immediately felt his stomach tighten. He withdrew from the window, glancing aft toward the still-occupied head.

Well... he supposed he could wait for Jeff... or, he could go out and face things himself, in the time and manner of his choosing.

Gordon Tracy did a lot of brave things, afterward, and an even greater number of foolish ones, but up to that point, he'd never shown more courage than it took to reach up, unlatch that door, and lower the boarding stairs.

It wasn't quite as hot as Madrid, but far more humid. After the canned air of the plane, the island's flowery, salt-pronged perfume smothered him like wet laundry. Still... no time like the present, and all that...,

He stepped out onto the broad top stair, stood blinking a little in the tropical sun. The dark-haired man stopped in his tracks, then lowered his sunglasses, jaw dropping slightly.

If Gordon had been pressed to describe his expression, he'd have said the fellow looked as though he were trying to recover from a painful belly-flop. A few rubber-legged steps, and then the dark-haired young man surged forward, taking the boarding stairs at a single, wild lunge.

What followed next was reminiscent of the way he'd been "welcomed" by the neighborhood toughs back in Drogheda, only marginally less painful. He was pounded and thumped, at one point lifted clean off his feet and shaken. Confused, Gordon started to fight back, only to be hauled into a fierce embrace, held so tight, he thought he'd be pinched in half. Somehow, he twisted free, putting a few meters of safety between himself and the other guy. He stiff-armed another lunge, then converted the aggressive gesture to a tentatively offered handshake, saying,

"Um... Hello..., I'm Gordon Tracy."

The man gripped his hand, expression somewhere between uncomprehending joy, and heartbreak.

"I _know_, Gordon...! God..., I'd know you anywhere!" He said, speaking in a voice thick and hoarse. He seized the boy's shoulders, adding, "I'm Scott, your big brother. Oh, my God... _Gordon_. Last time I saw you, you had blue eyes... you sat on my lap, while Mom got the camera out of her bag... You wanted to chew my shirt..."

The door to the head yawned open, and Jeff stepped forth, just in time. He came forward, face and manner closed and controlled. Whatever he'd done, thirteen years ago, whatever his reasons for doing it, Jeff would never again apologize.

"You two have met, I take it?" He asked, frowning slightly, then trying on a brief smile.

Scott gathered himself.

"Yes, Father... we've met. But, _how...?"_

A single, quelling look was all it took to kill the question. In that one exchange, Gordon learned a great deal; that 'Father' was not to be crossed, and that 'Scott', big and strong as he looked, followed orders with military snap and precision. Even unspoken ones.

"But... _shit,"_ Scott murmured suddenly, forgetting himself enough to curse in front of Jeff, "Wait 'll Virgil finds out. And _John...! _He'll go nuts."

Placing a rough, fond hand on top of Gordon's head, Scott mussed his coppery hair, saying,

"You've got a few more brothers to meet, Kiddo."


	5. Chapter 5: Protrait of the artist as a y...

5

_In which Gordon arrives at the house, and is introduced to Virgil. Thanks very much, to Barb, Darkhelmet, Opal Girl and the others, for all your comments and suggestions. Since this certainly sort of seems to be another work-in-progress, your ideas are quite valuable._

Jeff clambered onto the middle bench of the humvee, stretched out, and went immediately to sleep, using his wrinkled suit jacket as an ersatz blanket. In less than thirty seconds, he was snoring.

Gordon sat slumped in the forward passenger seat, more than a little bleary, himself. Every so often he tuned in to bits of Scott's animated monologue, which seemed to consist mostly of family history and descriptions. 'Virgil', he gathered, liked to hunt and fish, played piano and painted, while 'John' was a bit of a cipher, the sheltered 'odd duck' of the Tracy family. There was another brother, or maybe not quite a brother, about whom Scott had very little to say. 'Albert', or some such; Gordon was too tired to absorb it all at one go. He needed quiet, rest, _aspirin..._

Given Scott's break-neck speed, they were very quick to reach the upper end of thecraggy volcanic island. There, he pulled their vehicle into a covered carport which huddled in the shadow of an enormous mansion.

'_Bloody hell,'_ Gordon thought to himself, looking up through the passenger window, _'it's a damn palace!'_

Except that it wasn't what you'd call _classical_, exactly. More a vast, modular, cantilevered, Frank Lloyd Wright sort of affair. Lots of windows and ledges, lava rock and shell-studded concrete. It all but poured from the mountain side. Didn't match the whole 'spear-wielding natives fling shrieking virgin to the volcano-god' scenario he'd sleepily dreamt up.

"Gordon!" Scott called, giving his shoulder a friendly punch. "You with me?"

"Oh..., Right. Sorry. Just, um..., admirin' th' house."

Scott followed his awe-struck gaze, a broad white grin splitting his tanned face.

"Yeah. The house. It's, ah..."

"Big," Gordon suggested, for want of anything kinder.

"Uh-huh. 'Big' about covers it," Scott agreed, wincing a little. "Of course, 'Architectural Nightmare' comes in a pretty close second, but that's just my opinion." Glancing sideways at the red-haired boy, Scott suddenly added,

"We're not really _from_ here, you know. Virge and John, and me... And you , too. We're from the States. Kansas, originally, but there's property up in Colorado and Wyoming, as well. Farm and ranch land. Just so you know; this, um... this is new."

"New. Got it."

The distinction seemed important to Scott, so Gordon went along, supposing that matters would be clearer after a nap. He desperately wanted time alone, but there were further introductions to be made, more relations to meet.

Turning half way around in the driver's seat, Scott woke Jeff with a quiet,

"Father, we're at the house."

The older man roused himself at once, clearly still exhausted, but alert enough to nod, sit up, and run a hand through his mussed grey hair.

"Right." Collecting his suit jacket and travel bag, he opened the humvee's middle door and climbed stiffly forth. Scott and Gordon followed suit, Scott after cutting off the vehicle's engine and placing the keys in the dashboard glove box. Not much bother with thieves, apparently.

Jeff patted back a jaw-cracking yawn, then stretched until his joints popped.

"I'm headed upstairs," he informed his eldest son. "I'll be flying back to the Tokyo branch tonight, so until then, unless there's an _emergency,_ I'd prefer not to be disturbed."

Scott nodded seriously.

"Yes, Father. I'll send Kyrano up with breakfast, and a paper, whenever you're ready."

Jeff favored his dark-haired son with an approving smile, saying,

"Good boy; hold the fort, and wake me at need." Then, slapping Gordon's nearer shoulder, he added, "Welcome home," and turned to go.

Scott's ramrod posture relaxed a little when his father was out of sight along the winding path to the house.

"C'mon," he said, giving the boy a friendly cuff to the back of the head. "Virge was out by the pool, when I left, drawing something. Probably hasn't moved an inch, since."

Gordon looked around a good deal as they climbed the flagstoned path, only half listening to Scott. There were, he noted uncomfortably, things skittering, buzzing, clambering and growing literally _everywhere._ If it wasn't blossoming, it was screaming, flapping or darting.

In Sheffield and Drogheda, folk kept their plants in pots at the window, or in tidy garden plots. In Madrid, there were Moorish-tiled courtyards filled with well-tended orange trees and climbing roses, the lot hemmed in by wrought iron and high walls. Here..., well, from Gordon's perspective, the botanical inmates were running the asylum. A bit of order and a hatchet was what it wanted.

The path branched off, at one point, and Scott took the left-hand way. Gordon fixed the route in his head, for later reference. Passing beneath an arbor heavy with flowering vines, they came to a sort of patio area, split leveled, with two pools, neither of them large enough for a decent workout.

'_Cross that in no time,' _he thought dejectedly. _'Have to more than double the total laps...,'_

The pool deck was surrounded by a low, ivy-draped wall. There was a good bit of artfully arranged statuary and patio furniture there, and some tall potted plants.

Scott cut between a chaise longue and an umbrella table, leading the way to where a solitary figure in a paint-stained tee shirt and jeans sat crouched over a sketch pad, a stubby pastel crayon seeming incongruously small in his large, work-roughened hand. His hair was lighter than Scott's, a warm brown, and wavier, with a tendency to spring back from the forehead. His eyes, too, were brown, where Scott's were dark blue. More than that, the middle Tracy was _large_; even seated, he gave an overall impression of bear-like strength and power.

Gordon sized him up quickly as someone best not tackled hand-to-  
hand; alone, at least. Definitely, the fellow would have the reach on him.

Virgil looked up from his drawing, did a startled double-take and dropped the sketch pad, frightening a nearby bird into sudden, squawking flight. He got to his feet, staring first at Gordon, then, questioningly, at Scott. His older brother nodded, smiling broadly.

Gordon tensed, but Virgil didn't rush him as Scott had. Instead, he came slowly forward, a shocked and wondering look on his face. He stopped less than a meter before Gordon, then extended a hand and, though the boy twitched away a bit, touched his face, brushing at the sun-bleached copper hair above his forehead.

"Still a carrot top."

Virgil laughed a little, like someone who'd just been given an unexpected, heart-stoppingly wondrous gift, then hauled him into a rib-crushing hug.

"Gordon...!" He whispered, "Gordon David Tracy! Damn good to see you again, little brother. _Damn _good."

_Finally, _he was released, and stood there between Scott and Virgil feeling strangely hollow. How could they love him so much, when they didn't even _know_ him? And worse yet... how could he, guiltily and miserably, feel nothing in return? Fortunately, his new brothers were too distracted to notice.

They talked excitedly of introducing him to 'John', occasionally shoving him around, or playfully tousling his hair. Then, with a big smile, Virgil asked,

"So, what've you been doing with yourself all this time, Kiddo? Hiding?"

_Hiding?_

He thought of his mum, gone now, and of the Fellows family in Sheffield, where he'd first experienced curry. Madrid, the athletic dorms, what had felt like an unending rosary of hospital visits... _Hiding?_

He had to say something. They were looking at him, expectant and friendly.

"Um..., I bunked with my team, at th' dormitory. Did a bit of competition swimmin'. Nothin' much, really."

Virgil, hearing him speak for the first time, cocked his head quizzically, and smiled a little.

"In England?" He hazarded.

Gordon shifted his stance uncomfortably, looking slightly away. They'd moved around so much; his mum forever dreading phone calls in the night, or people coming to take him away from her. He'd been very strictly raised not to speak with curious strangers, or answer questions about himself in any but the most general terms. He wasn't to look suspicious or unfriendly, mind you, but to politely get away and tell her at once, if anyone evinced too much interest in him..., and then they'd move, again. Hiding, after all. Still, some sort of answer was called for.

"Oh..., a bit of all over, really. Here an' about with th' swim team, y' know."

"Could come in handy," Virgil reasoned aloud. "On some of our European mi..."

Scott gave a short, sharp cough, bringing his hand to his mouth, and shaking his head. Virgil immediately changed the subject.

"Anyway; c'mon, we'll give you the grand tour. If you like swimming, you're in heaven, kiddo, 'cause you've got two pools, _plus_ the ocean. Perfect, huh?"

And then, clapping a hand to the back of Gordon's neck, Virgil led their way up to the house.


	6. Chapter 6: Two Brothers

6

_Gordon meets Alan._

The day after John arrived, Gordon experienced his first semi-formal, Tracy brother 'conference'. In the tiled sunroom, with the big french doors open to a lush breeze, and gathered around a glass-topped table, the four Tracys met to talk.

Boastful nonsense, much of it, with a bit of 'catching up' thrown in for good measure. Scott and Virgil did most of the talking, leaning forward in their seats, Virgil gesturing broadly with the half-smoked Marlboro in his right hand, Scott often laughing too hard to speak. John, long legs stretched far out beneath the table, sun-warmed and half asleep, threw in a few lazy comments from time to time, but seemed content mostly to nurse his second beer, and listen.

Then, about an hour into this 'huddle', Virgil said something that struck Gordon as decidedly odd. They'd been discussing the ranch in Wyoming; Scott and Virgil telling the boy how vast the 'spread' was, and how much he was going to love it there, when all at once, Virgil bragged that he could...

"...Land Thunderbird 2 in the front yard, with room on either side to run a hundred head of cattle. No lie."

Scott gave his younger brother a sharp glance, and Virgil at once stoppered the offending comment with a huge bite of his roast beef sandwich, mumbling something about the 'Wind River Indian Reservation Stunt Flying Team'. But...

_Thunderbird 2?_ As in..., the big rescue vehicle?

Perplexed, Gordon looked over at John, whose expression had darkened, slightly. Sitting up a bit, John said,

"Seems to me we've wasted enough time bull-shitting, Scott. Why don't you just exp..."

A faint, polite, throat-clearing sound cut him off in mid-syllable. Kyrano, the family's oriental manservant, had entered the room. (Thin, small and fastidious; he looked rather like a maths professor Gordon knew in Sheffield.) Coming forward, the old man bowed fluidly, saying,

"Good afternoon, Young Sirs: Mr. Scott, Mr. John, Mr. Virgil, Master Gordon...,"

"What's up, Kyrano?" Scott inquired, actually seemingrelieved at the interruption.

"Sirs, I have received word that the company jet bringing Master Alan for his summer visit will arrive within the hour."

The manservant bowed again, looking around at the three older brothers, none of whom exactly fell over themselves volunteering to pick the boy up. Kyrano made a graceful gesture of assent, saying smoothly,

"With your permission, Young Sirs, I shall betake myself to the airstrip, there to await Master Alan's arrival."

Gordon looked from one face to another, more than a little troubled. This 'Alan' was their brother, too..., wasn't he? What could he have done, really, to justify being banished and ignored, like that?

He caught John's eye, but wasn't able to decipher his quiet sibling's deadpan expression. John noticed, however, and reacted.

"Tell you what, Gordon," the blond told him, glancing first at Scott. "Why don't you go along with Kyrano? It'll give you a chance to escape all this shop talk, and get to know your...,"

"Juvenile delinquent," Virgil cut in, grinding out his cigarette.

"Demon spawn...," Scott muttered darkly.

"... _Brother," _finished John, as though he'd heard nothing amiss. "Go on out and bring him back."

"In a bag, preferably," growled Scott, who seemed to have the least regard for the youngest Tracy.

Good enough. A great sports philosopher had once said,

"You can observe a lot, just by looking."

Well, Gordon meant to go look, observe, and form his _own_ opinion of the infamous Alan.

The trip back down to the airstrip took much longer with Kyrano at the wheel. Gordon honestly believed that he could have _walked _the distance faster. To pass the time, he tried asking the cagey old servant a few questions about his father and brothers, but quickly discovered that Kyrano was a master of circumlocution; he used more words than Gordon had ever heard, telling him nothing he didn't already know, with a quiet rebuke into the bargain. Gordon wasn't positive, but he had the distinct impression that somewhere amidst all that flowery prose, he'd just been smacked down for prying.

Right, then. As Kyrano was a dry hole, he rested his arm along the humvee's open window, stared outside for two-headed things, and fell to considering a mystery; one he really had no idea how to ask about.

A few nights previously, when he'd finally managed a moment alone to wander the house, he'd come upon a long hall, a sort of portrait gallery. There were many pictures hung there, some of them holographic, but most simply old-fashioned oil paintings.

One in particular caught his eye, and his heart, for he knew her. It was a large portrait, nearly life-sized, done in gem-like shades of rose, and gold, and richest blue. It was a woman, beautiful and blonde, with the same blue-violet eyes as John and Scott. She was smiling, same as ever, though it gave him a start to see her out of the water. Heart thudding, Gordon had reached forth a hand.

Sometimes..., when he'd swum so hard and so long that he wanted to crawl off somewhere and collapse, when oxygen deprivation turned his limbs all to fire, and made his lungs an aching void... sometimes, then, he saw her.

She'd be looking just that way, soft and encouraging. Only, there 'd be a swim mask on her face. Her hair, instead of falling loose about her slim shoulders, would be a floating cloud of gold. And, she'd be reaching for him. He'd... somehow, he knew that he'd made her proud. That he'd done something right.

His fingers encountered the ridged, swirling texture of dried paint, not silky cloth and warm flesh. No surprise, really. He couldn't quite reach her in the water, either. Not ever.

A word came to his mind, but he pushed it aside as disloyal. Anyhow, you didn't say it like that. The proper word was _mummy_.

_Mum. _

There was a brass plate affixed to the bottom of the picture, lit by a tiny bulb. _'Lucinda Marie Tracy'._ He'd stared at the picture for a very long time, wondering a great many _'whys?' _

Sitting in the humvee, now, thudding and bumping along the rutted trail at a garden-toad's pace, Gordon wondered who he might safely talk to about his... about the picture. Grandmother, he finally decided.

She was a fearsome old thing; tiny, erect and agile as a songbird, with a sailor's mouth and a saint's heart. After meeting Gordon, taking his hand and bidding him sit down to "chat a spell", she'd stumped off and had an enormous row with her son, Jeff.

Gordon, choosing life, had made himself scarce until Jeff departed (early) for Tokyo. If anyone had answers, it was Grandmother Tracy.

A noise overhead caught the boy's attention. Pointing up and out the passenger window, Gordon said to Kyrano, (still creeping along at a majestic 10 kilometers an hour),

"Oh, look! It's the Lear. How 'bout I pop out and run meet it, and you catch up when you can?"

Kyrano gave him a rather severe look, but he grudgingly tapped the accelerator pedal perhaps a whole millimeter closer to the floorboard. Gordon pretended to be hurled backward.

"Warn me, would you, Kyrano," he groused, "Next time you decide t' stamp on th' accelerator like that? I might have got whiplashed!"

All at once the vehicle stopped, andhe really _did_ end up footing it, jogging and bounding cross-trail and through jungle; reaching the airstrip after the Lear jet, but before (hah!) Kyrano. Giving the distant humvee a jaunty, over-the-shoulder wave, Gordon strode up to the parked and keening jet.

He was drenched, panting and scratched. Looked like something the cat had better sense than to drag in; but Gordon was quite proud, still, that he'd made it there in time to greet his younger brother.

Alan Tracy slouched out of the jet and down to the tarmac alone, the cabin crew having evidently decided that he could show himself out. He was about as tall as Gordon, but chubbier, with spiky blond hair, round blue eyes, and the truculent expression of one who expects trouble, and welcomes it.

They stared at one another. Then Alan shifted his torn and marked-  
up book bag to the other shoulder, demanding,

"Who are you supposed to be? The ghost of brothers past?"

Recalling his manners, and controlling the urge to snap back, Gordon extended a hand.

"I'm Gordon Tracy, y..."

But the younger boy cut him off, his golden eyebrows flying nearly to his gelled hairline.

"_The _Gordon Tracy?" He inquired facetiously.

That did it.

"_No, dammit, th' other one!" _Gordon raged, as six days of breath-holding, stomach-sucked-in good behavior finally crashed around him in little shattered bits. "And I'm bloody well changin' my name! _David! _Now, there's a thought; no one _ever _says, _'omigod, it's David'_!"

Alan's jaw dropped, and then he chuckled.

"No, for real, man," he prodded, smiling this time. "_The _Gordon? As in, _'swept away in an avalanche, you can never be as good as he was', _Gordon? Like, my arch-nemesis?"

"Arch... _what?"_ Gordon snapped.

"Nuthin'! Just jokes, man. So, uh...," Alan began to walk away from the Lear jet, as the crew had begun gesturing impatiently through the windows. "... who conned you into coming out here to get me?"

Gordon fell into step at Alan's side.

"John's idea, really," the older boy responded, over the roar of engine and sea. "He thought we should become acquainted."

"Whoa!" Alan dropped his bag to the ground at the parking area (forgot it there for three days, too, but that was another matter.) Behind them, the jet had taxied back along the airstrip and turned into the wind. "You mean _Megalo-man _showed up? Dude! This is serious! We gotta talk. When 'd you get here?"

"Six days ago, give or take. I've been meetin' relatives day an' night. Damn hand's about t' fall off, an' half my ribs 're broke."

Alan grinned at him.

"So..., tell the truth and shame the devil; what d' you really think of the 'Bobbsey Triplets'?"

Gordon ought to have disapproved of Alan's rudeness, but it was nice talking to someone close to his own age.

"Well..., they're certainly friendly," he began, feeling each and every 'welcome home' bruise.

Alan snorted.

"To _you, _maybe! Got no time for me, though."

Gordon tried another tack, after the company jet had arrowed off into the turquoise distance.

"Well, John seems likeable enough. Quiet sort."

"_Okay._ Think that, if you want to; but don't get between him and dad, because...," Alan kicked aside the book bag, and struck a dramatic fencing pose, "_...there can only be one!"_

Gordon laughed, made as if to cross invisible swords with his brother.

"_Highlander," _he said.

"Dude!" Alan dropped the pose, grinning delightedly, "You _know _that movie?"

Gordon shrugged modestly, still smiling.

"Not much else t' do in Vallekas, is there, after th' bars 've closed?"

"You go to _bars._..?" Alan's voice was an awed whisper, his round face a perfect study in hero-worship.

"Free food," his brother explained succinctly. "Buy a cheap drink, an' you can eat tapas till they throw you out. Got t' stretch that damn athletic stipend any way y' can, trust me."

"Wow. That is _so_ cool. Hey, listen...," Alan glanced over to where the laboring humvee had finally crunched its ponderous way around the final bend. "...You don't really want to wait for Kyrano, do you? I mean..., it's okay. I don't care, or anything, just... I know a shortcut. We could, you know, talk, and stuff."

Gordon never realized, till their last conversation, many years later, what his response meant to Alan.

"All right. Nothin' goin' on up there that won't keep. Rather see the shortcut than get batted around again, anyhow."

"Huh!" Alan marveled, as they waved Kyrano off and started walking. "This is, like, _so_ weird. All this time, no offense, man, I _hated _you. I thought, if I ever finally met you, you'd be... I dunno... like _them._ Part of the 'Alan's not allowed' club. But, you're not. You're...,"

The baby-faced blond paused, groping for words. He hated school, hated being laughed at. Hated not having a father at home, and hated worse having to sit in his room with his music blasting to drown out the sound of his parents' latest argument. But most of all, he hated being the unwanted outsider in a family of proud heroes. Tall, strong and perfect, every one of them. Every one, but him. Here at last, though, was someone who, just maybe, didn't hate him right back.

"...You're, like, a _friend_ or something."

"We're brothers, right?" Gordon replied distractedly, squinting around at dripping-wet dimness as they entered the teeming jungle. "Tell y' what, Alan; any radioactive horror with two heads pops out, you take th' left head. I've got th' other."

Alan nodded, thinking furiously. For the first time in all his twelve years, he'd connected with someone other than his mom. But... how to cement the friendship? How to keep Gordon from being pulled back over to 'their side'?

All at once, he got a notion. Not just a light bulb, but a halogen floodlight went off in the boy's mind as he said,

"Hey, Bro; wanna see something _really _cool?"


	7. Chapter 7: Discovery

7

_Alan reveals a secret..._

They scrambled over blades of jagged lava, squirming their way past thorny, oozing plants. The ground underfoot was a tangled obstacle course of rotting leaves, up-thrust roots and murky puddles, whileover allhung the sweetish scent of decay and blossoms, mixed with salt from the distant sea.

Water drops, leaves and insects rained down upon them from the jungle canopy, arching overhead like a rustling, seething roof. The air, greenish-dim and dank, throbbed with the rusty creaking of tiny frogs. And there were _trees_; great, bearded giants a hundred years old, with secondary trunks grown down from their huge, spreading limbs. Whole, separate mini-forests had sprung up on some of the larger branches, complete with creeping predators, and watery hollows teeming with larvae.

Fortunately, Alan knew where he was going, and he talked the entire way, distracting Gordon with colorful anecdotes about the scenery, and his long-suffering brothers. Especially Scott.

"So, _anyways,_" he was saying, as they stepped through the vine-draped entrance to a hiddenlava tunnel, "Scott figured out who put the Ex-Lax in his coffee, and he chased me halfway around the house, till the laxative kicked in and he had to stagger to the bathroom, clutching his guts. I kept running, though, 'cause I'm not... like... suicidal, or anything, and I hid out in this tunnel for two days. Dude, it was great! Naw... _for real!_ Rain water, vienna sausages and the cherished memory of Scooter's face! What's not to love? Here.."

Hereached into adeep crevice just within the tunnel entrance; withdrew two cans of cherry soda and a plastic bag of beef jerky. Dividing the supplies, he added, triumphantly,

"Dinner... is served."

Gordon accepted the food and drink, looking around at slanted walls of dark, clammy rock.

"This is what you wanted t' show me, is it?"

"Uh-uh," Alan grinned, his round face alight with mischief. "This is just the beginning, Man. Come on, choke it down, and let's go. The _real_ action's down here."

The ancient tunnel drove more or less directly into the side of the mountain, tending gradually downward. Alan lit their way with a pocket flashlight, saying,

"...So, I did some exploring while I was down here, looking for new hideouts, just in case... (watch yourself, it gets real narrow after that next bend, there)... and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but... _THAT!"_

They'd ducked and wriggled their way around a gritty hairpin bend in the passage. Alan was correct; the tunnel _did_ constrict painfully. Gordon, who was quite broad about the chest and shoulders, left a fair bit of skin behind, grunting and straining his way through the rocky sieve.

"Dammit, Alan...!" he'd been saying, dragging himself out of the crevice, only to stumble on some sort of raised concrete floor. "There 'd _better_ be another way out, or I'll not..."

Gordon never completed his statement. They'd reached the end of the tunnel, a manmade ventilation culvert terminating in a large, round, welded-steel grate. _Decidedly_, an odd thing to find so far beneath a volcanic mountain.

Through the grating, Gordon spied the blunt nose of a titanic green aircraft. Stunned, he edged closer to the barred opening, brother temporarily forgotten.

She was bathed in the glow of a hundred floodlights, attended by a small army of maintenance robots, in a hangar so big, it would easily have housed _seven_ swim complexes as large as the one in Madrid. Gordon blinked. His fingers curved around the grating bars, as he craned his neck for a better view.

Beside him, Alan danced anxiously from foot to foot, impatient for some kind of reaction. Gordon barely noticed. It was Thunderbird 2. It had to be. Even without photos, with only artists' renderings in the _Post_ and the _Sun_ to compare her with, he knew.

Giant, flat-bottomed and broad, with a semi-circular string of windows in her bow, and the number _2_ painted in stark white upon her muscular flank, she was all slumbering power and tightly leashed force.

International Rescue... _Here?_

Gordon turned away from the grating to regard his younger brother.

"Can we get closer?" He asked, pale, serious, and very quiet.

Alan smiled again, gesturing at a palm-print scanner beside the grate.

"Depends, Man. You willing to take a chance?"

Gordon glanced back at the dark green leviathan crouched in its lair like Smaug on his heaped treasures.

"_Hell, _yes. Tell me what t' do."


	8. Chapter 8: Getting In

_A bit of breaking and entering. Kindest thanks to all who have expressed ideas and opinions. Most questions, hopefully, will soon be resolved..._

_8_

John's words... _"When he gets around to explaining what's going on, I think you'll be proud to be a part of things..," _and Virgil's boast about landing Thunderbird 2, came rushing back to him now, as Gordon stared at Alan.

International Rescue, a rogue organization operating well outside WorldGov's sanction (thumbing their nose at them, actually), was based on Tracy Island, _under his very feet_. The last time he'd received so electrifying a jolt, he'd qualified for the European Junior Men's Swim Team. Very much, Gordon wanted to learn more.

Alan pointed upward. Following the gesture, Gordon saw that the roof of their ventilation culvert sprouted the bottom few rungs of a metal ladder that disappeared into the shadows of a vertical maintenance shaft.

"That's the official way to get here," Alan confided, adding, "I've never gone up that way, myself, 'cause I'm not too sure where it comes out, and I'm not.., like, exactly on fire to get caught."

Turning back to the wall-mounted palm print scanner, his younger brother went on, clearly well pleased with himself.

"See..., if you were coming down here to oil the grate, or something, you'd need a way to open it, right?"

Gordon nodded, privately seething with impatience.

"Well, that's what the scanner's for. Now, I only come out this way during summer vacation, spring break, and Thanksgiving. Mom gets me through most of school, and Christmas... (Why does anybody _get_ married, anyway? I mean..., what's the point?)." He shrugged, returning to the subject at hand. "Anyways, I'm not supposed to know all this is here, and I'm pretty sure I'm not in the admission files, but..."

For just an instant, Alan's round shoulders slumped a bit, and he looked rather crestfallen. Or, maybe it was wistful.

"... I betcha anything that _you're _in there already. All Brains 'd have to do is pick up a glass you set down, and scan it into the system. _Bingo,_ you're legit, and the door opens."

Gordon, sensing his younger brother's shrugged-off hurt, chose to ask a question, rather than leap directly into the experiment. (Would it be better, he wondered, if the grate _failed _to open for him, and they were forced to try something else?)

"Who, or what, is 'Brains'?" He asked, buying a bit of think time.

"Skinny guy in a white lab coat," Alan responded, idly playing the flashlight about their feet. "Glasses, messy hair..., always looks like he just dropped his keys down the drain, or something."

"Y' mean, th' fellow who keeps slippin' off whenever I walk into a room?" Gordon whispered back. Like an evening shadow he'd seemed; thin, faint and elusive.

"Yeah, but it's nothing personal, man. Give him a couple of weeks, till you aren't new anymore, and he'll start talking to you."

"Right," Gordon smiled. "I'll set out bait, or somethin'." Then, as Alan seemed to have regained some of his confidence, "Just put my hand on th' scanner, shall I?"

"Yup." Alan grew serious again, and held out a loosely clenched fist. "Luck, man. If the alarms go off, we run like heck. Just follow me, and holler if you get stuck. I'll pry you loose some kinda way."

Gordon tapped his own fist to his younger brother's, saying, simply,

"Thanks."

Then, he turned and placed his left hand, palm outward, against the black glass face of the scanner.

The smooth surface grew warm from his fingertips down to the heel, as a thin bar of red light passed silently along his flattened palm. His skin tingled just a bit, while the device carefully catalogued every crease, fold and ridge. A small chime sounded. Then, on the scanner's tiny display screen, the words, _'Tracy, Gordon David' _appeared. Alan had been exactly right.

The grating protecting Thunderbird 2 unlocked with the harsh, metallic _thunk _of a heavy bolt sliding out of its housing.

Gordon started to push it open, but changed his mind. After all, Alan had discovered all this. In Gordon's mind, at least, his brother more than deserved to be first. He stepped away, jerking a thumb at the unlocked grate.

"Why don't you have a go, then?"

Alan's sky-blue eyes widened gratefully.

"For real? _Cool! _Thanks, man." And he put a dimpled hand to the grating; gave it a slow, gentle shove.

Neither of them, though, had figured on the hangar's defenses.


	9. Chapter 9: Exit

Barb, I tried to answer you question through email, but couldn't get through.

Clairie, confused, I would imagine; living part-time in Madrid, and surrounded by so many other European accents, English, Swedish, French, etc, on the swim team, he'd sound a bit muddled. Worse still, after hanging around with his brothers and TinTin...

9

_A bit of trouble getting out..._

There was some sort of track, or ladder, extending from the open end of their ventilation shaft to a metal balcony. The drop was a short one, maybe seven feet, so Alan simply jumped the distance, landing with a resounding _clang_, and waking echoes all along the hangar's vast length.

Thinking, disgustedly,

'_Oh, well done, Alan!' _Gordon followed his brother, gripping firmly to the ladder rails, and more or less sliding down. The balcony, or catwalk, extended many hundreds of meters to left and right, but the boys did rather less exploring than they'd hoped to.

Almost immediately, perhaps triggered by Alan's crashing arrival, a set of track-mounted laser cannons swivelled to face the source of the noise, then began to move, sliding across ceiling and walls to close on the intruders.

Gordon wasn't certain what they were about, but he doubted that the humming, sparking guardians intended a congenial welcome. Back _up_ the ladder was out of the question. They'd never make it in time. Where...?

With visions of flash-frying, painful dismemberment filling his head, he shoved Alan toward the nearest likely shelter, a shallow doorway, and tried to block the lasers' view of his brother with his own, hopefully less unwelcome, form.

The tracked cannons converged from all directions, muzzles pointed squarely at the two boys. Some sort of scanning wave passed through them, setting up a weird internal vibration that reminded Gordon of the palm scanner, and made him long for a bathroom.

"_Alan," _he whispered, eyes fixed on the lasers, _"can y' get th' door open?"_

One of the wall cannons extended itself in a swaying, almost serpentine manner, attempting to fire past Gordon.

"Not squished like this!" His brother croaked hoarsely. "Anyways, it's got another palm scanner!"

The scarlet beam flashed out, quicker than the eye could follow, but not quite shallow enough to skirt the metal doorjamb on the one side, and the older boy's arm on the other. Instead, the laser skimmed Gordon's left elbow. Nothing burnt, or fell off, but he immediately lost all sensation in the limb clear down to his fingertips.

"Can't really turn around," Gordon informed his brother, in a rather strained voice. "Need t' keep this lot in view. Jus' guide my hand up there, an' try t' keep yourself covered."

"Gotcha."

Alan, to his credit, never panicked. He simply took hold of Gordon's right arm (the one that had been pressed against the threshold), and twisted it up and back, eliciting a long stream of truly colorful and inspiring language. At any other time, the younger boy would have applauded.

"Sorry, man," was all he said now, "angle's kinda weird."

"_Just... get it over with!"_ Gordon hissed, as his shoulder made ready to part company with the rest of his body. Perhaps there was a Special Olympics team out there, somewhere, in need of an armless swimmer...

Then his palm was mashed against something cold and smooth. The tracked guns, meanwhile, were moving again, trying for a clean shot. They probably meant only to stun and capture, rather than kill, but Gordon had no desire to hang about and discover which it was.

The familiar, tingling pulse flashed along his hand, then stopped midway.

"Gordon, stop squirming around!" Alan snapped, a trifle desperately, "it can't get a good scan if you won't be still!"

"_Sorry,"_ the red-haired boy grunted, willing himself to absolute immobility. The scanner started up again, and this time, completed its business. A sharp click announced the unlocking of the door behind them. With a low hum, it slid smoothly sideways, disappearing into a slot in the rock wall.

The boys fell through, stumbled, then pelted off along yet another precisely-machined concrete tunnel. This one, too, was tracked, down the middle of the floor, but the hangar guns didn't follow them in.

Alan and Gordon never stopped running till the hangar door was well out of sight. Then they collapsed, trying to laugh and pant for air at one and the same time. Gordon spoke first, experimentally poking at the partially paralyzed arm with the nearly dislocated one.

"Thanks... ever so... for th' lovely tour... Alan, but on... mullin' it over, I b'lieve your shortcut... has a few too many unlisted hazards."

"Coulda... gone better..., yeah." Alan admitted, lighting up a shamefaced grin with his re-fired torch. He set it down for a second, and dug a spare can of cherry soda out of one of his board-shorts' zippered pockets. Holding the thing away from himself, he popped the top, muttering,

"Look out; it's probably all shaken up, but I'm gonna die right here, if I don't get something to drink."

It did, indeed, fizz up, jetting cherry froth all over both brothers and the curving tunnel wall, but there was enough left to share.

After taking a pull at the warm beverage, Gordon handed the rest back to his brother, saying,

"Anythin' else you forgot t' mention? Bombs...? Death squads...? More relatives...?"

Alan killed the remaining soda, then hit a tab at the bottom of the can, causing the shape-memory alloy to collapse into a small disk. (He pocketed the thing, confiding, "Save enough of these, and you can trade 'em in for some really cool stuff. I'm for real, man.)

Thirst slaked and pulses returned to normal, they got to their feet and wobbled off down the new tunnel, Alan lighting the way.

"Well," he responded, at last, "I dunno about bombs and death squads, but there's a girl here. On the island, I mean; not, like... right _here."_

"Really?" Gordon perked right up. He'd managed to flex the fingers on his left hand just a bit, and that, plus the promised female, topped off his mood, again. "Not another relative, is she?"

"Uh-uh. Her name's Delphine, but she'll kill you if you call her that. Everyone sticks with 'TinTin'. She's Kyrano's daughter, and she's, like, totally hot, but in a, um... too good for _you _kind of way."

Gordon chose to ignore this last bit, as he trudged along beside his suddenly suspicious brother.

"Good, 'cause... if there's but one good lookin' female on th' island, an' she turned out t' be my sister... I'd fall on m' damn sword."

Alan's blue eyes grew very wide.

"You've got a _sword?_"

"No. I'd order one, just f'r the occasion." Then, after listening hard to a faint, disturbing noise, "Alan... what's that sound?"

A low, throbbing hum had set up; barely audible at first, then increasing in volume till it seemed to fill all the world. It was coming from the tracks at their feet.

The boys glanced at one another, then both ways along the tunnel. In neither direction could they see anything, even with the aid of Alan's light. About fifteen meters up the track, however, they spied the gaping black cavity of another side tunnel.

"_Come on!" _Alan shouted, beginning to run. Gordon set off after him, just as a powerful gust of air, the leading edge of a mighty pressure wave, struck him full on. Something was coming their way, moving fast, and filling the tunnel.

Gordon forced himself to run faster, chillingly conscious that he was racing closer to the invisible juggernaut with each step. He stumbled, righted himself, and surged onward, ducking into the side passage just as something truly huge shrieked past, it's terrible momentum sucking the air out of the branching tunnel and pulling Gordon halfway back to the main track. Scrambling for something to hold to, he caught at a metal bracket of some sort, realizing, all at once, that Alan wasn't with him.

The noise and wind continued for what seemed a hellish long time, while Gordon clung to his bracket and prayed that there was room in that other tunnel for his brother to avoid being smeared like peanut butter. At last, the rushing faded into the distance. Gordon let go his cramped, bloodless grip on the metal handle.

Both terrified to search, and unable _not _to, he blundered into the dead-black main tunnel, calling,

"_Alan!"_

He collided with something, hard enough to knock loose an entire constellation of stars; his brother, very much alive, in one piece, and hurrying blindly along in the opposite direction. The passage was a T-junction, and they'd taken opposite ways. Alan clutched at him, near frantic with anger and worry.

"Gordon! _Omigod._.. you're alive! What's the _matter _with you? Why didn't you _follow_ me? I thought you got, like... like..." He couldn't finish, having apparently suffered the same gruesome visuals.

"There's another passage, on that side," Gordon replied, giving his younger brother's soda-sticky shoulder a relieved pat. Then, because dark, enclosed spaces had always depressed him, "What's become of th' torch?"

"The wha...? _Flashlight, _you mean? Dude, we seriously gotta work on that, y' know, speech problem of yours. Anyways, I dropped it somewhere... or something. C 'mon, man... this way."

Together, they fumbled their way back along Alan's branch of the tunnel, feeling about for the dropped light.

"Y' know," Gordon observed, with an exhausted sigh, "I'm not exactly havin' th' time of my life, here."

Alan snorted.

"Yeah, well..." he found the torch, which lit again, despite having a badly cracked case. "Just don't do anything stupid like that, again. _Hey! _What's that on you?"

Gordon glanced down.

"Same as on you. Bloody damn cherry drink. You're jumpin' at shadows, Alan."

The blond relaxed enough to give his brother a wry smile.

"Hey, man, I _wasn't _scared. Just, you know... nervous, kinda. I didn't know what happened to you, and it would sorta suck to lose your brother the same day as you met him. So, next time, stay close."

"Right," Gordon responded amiably.

Since Alan's branch seemed as good as any, and lacked anything remotely resembling a track, they picked a direction and started walking.

"Don't suppose you've any idea, really, where we are?" Gordon inquired, in his politest, least accusatory manner.

"Um..." Alan looked around, frowning slightly, then holding up a wetted finger to test the 'wind'. "In a general kinda way, we're, uh... _lost._ Yup. That's the word, all right. Lost. Not... a... clue."

Gordon chuckled, shaking his head. Figured.

"Jus' checking. Not your fault, really. Should've expected that International Rescue would turn out t' be one bloody well-guarded set up."

"Yeah, that's what they'd like to think," Alan responded. "But lookit; we got _awful _close, and we're still moving around under our own power."

Gordon made a loose fist with his left hand; flexed the arm at the elbow.

"Parts of us, at any rate," he quipped. Alan didn't question the statement, dropping the torch beam to squint ahead.

"Hey, Gordon...?" he said, voice falling back down to an urgent whisper, "see that, up ahead?"

His older brother peered forward, hazel eyes narrowing.

"Light. Looks natural."

"_Yeah, buddy!"_ Alan exulted, "our tickets to the great outdoors are punched! Come on, and this time... _keep up!"_

They hurried forward, Gordon returning to a question that had him rather perplexed.

"So..." he asked quietly, as they stole toward the distant, greenish-gold sparkle, "who flies what? Virgil's in Thunderbird 2, I suppose, that's a fair match..."

"They do sorta go together," Alan agreed, glancing back with a mischievous grin. "Big and slow, both of 'em. What about Thunderbird 1? Who would you guess?"

The light was growing stronger; a warm, 'late afternoon in the tropics' radiance that soon made Alan's torch unnecessary. He switched it off.

"Well, th' papers an' news alerts say she's th' first t' th' scene, always," Gordon considered. "So... Scott, I'd say."

"Uh-huh. You got it. Captain Control-Freak and his Amazing Flying Machine, to the rescue."

The closer they came to the source of the light, the lower their voices dropped, till they were barely whispering. After all, for all the boys knew, the tunnel might open out in the midst of Grandmother's vegetable patch, which would have been most awkward.

"But, what about John?" Gordon probed. "Has he not got a Thunderbird of his own, then?"

"Sort of... Mr. Freeze spends most of his time in space, on Thunderbird 5, when he's not hauling crap to the moon station, for NASA."

All at once, Alan stopped talking; stood craning his head upward, at the round, vine-covered grate which capped a forgotten access shaft. It was through this opening that the most beautiful outdoor glow imaginable filled the tunnel like a benediction.

"We're in luck, Bro! All we need to do is find a way to drop the ladder, there... Can you give me a boost?"

Gordon nodded, squatting down and lacing his stiff fingers to form a cradle for Alan's suede Etnies skate shoe.

"Count of three," the older boy grunted, as most of Alan's weight came down upon his weakened arms. Alan, lower lip caught between his teeth, braced himself with one hand planted at the top of Gordon's coppery head, the other reaching upward.

"Ready?" Gordon asked.

"Yeah."

"Right. One... two... _three!"_

And the older boy heaved upward, first straightening his legs, then using arm and shoulder muscles to raise Alan high enough to reach the bottom of the ladder.

"Okay... got it... _Dang! _The catch is kinda rusted... Hold me up a few more seconds..." Alan twisted about, then began pounding away at something with the cracked handle of his flashlight. Finally, in shower of rusty flakes, the ladder came loose, the bottom half ratcheting down past him with the loud, ringing clatter of hail on a tin roof.

Gordon let Alan drop gently to the ground, returning his younger brother's cheery thumbs-up. Then, Alan leapt, seized the extended ladder, and began to climb. After a moment, Gordon followed, relieved when he'd got high enough to place his feet on a rung. His left arm was still feeling the lingering aftereffects of that paralyzing ray, making the long upward climb more of a challenge than it should have been.

"What about... the other pilots?" He grunted, to distract himself.

"There aren't any more," Alan whispered back, first having a listen at the opening, then working at the grate's long neglected catch. So close to freedom... "Dad and Brains, sometimes, in a real pinch, but mostly just Curly, Larry and Moe."

Gordon, clinging fast to the rungs just below, shook his red head.

"Odd. Thought it was a bigger organization, somehow."

"Yeah..." Alan continued working at the catch, with his skateboard zip-tool, now. "Everybody... always... _(uh!)_... does. It's kinda funny... (_c' mon, you stupid piece of junk!)_ listening to 'em, like... speculate... Ah-_ha!_ Gotcha!"

Hanging away from the ladder just a bit, Alan looked down and gave his older brother a broad grin. "We're outta here, Dude! Follow me!"

The grate was shoved open, and they scrambled, Alan first, then Gordon, free of the access shaft and out onto the mountainside. Black stone, huge trees, and distant, wrinkled blue ocean met their squinting eyes. Judging from the angle of the velvety shadows, and the nearly sixty-degree slant of the rocky slope, they were on the north side of the island, about a third of the way up.

Exchanging tired smiles and friendly shoves, the boys started walking. It would likely be dark before they got home, but at least they were free, and out of trouble...

They'd made it a whole twenty meters, almost, before Scott, Virgil and Brains closed in, mounted on hover sleds and looking _extremely_ serious.

"Crap," Alan commented, succinctly.


	10. Chapter 10: Growing up Tracy

10

The trip back to the house seemed lighting swift, and as black with threat as a funnel cloud. Alan rode behind Brains on one of the hover sleds, while Gordon sat behind Virgil, the lot of them whipping swiftly in and out among huge, dark trees.

Scott led the way down-slope, grim, tight-lipped and silent. He'd done nothing beyond issue a few grunted orders, yet the set of his jaw, and the volcanic spark in his blue eyes, telegraphed his mood better than shouting would have.

Perhaps ten minutes later, they were hustled off the sleds and into Jeff's office, where John had been minding the desk. Gordon hadn't much time to look around before the fireworks got started, noticing little more than Asian artwork, colorful rugs and massive wooden furniture. There were portraits, too, of his three oldest brothers and a beautiful blonde whom he vaguely recognized.

Jeff, himself, was still in Japan, smoothing over an insult to the Japanese Space Agency, whose contracts with Tracy Aerospace were worth hundreds of billions of Yen. He hadn't heard of the 'break in' yet, and as far as Scott was concerned, he never needed to. Internal matter, so to speak, but a damn sure important one.

With a short, sharp gesture, Scott indicated that the boys should take a seat on one of the large leather couches. Then, he turned and shut the double doors.

John had risen to his feet, coming around the ornate desk to join Virgil, Brains and the two boys. He held up a hand as Scott returned to the group.

"Before you let go with both barrels, Scott, I have something to say."

His older brother nodded, briefly.

"Fire away, but keep it short, John. We've got a lot to cover."

"With all due respect," John continued, his classically chiseled face remote and calm, "This was _entirely _foreseeable. They're boys. They're going to explore; and it was damn shortsighted of father not to bring them in on all this...," he gestured around at the office, with its high-tech monitor and portrait comms, "..._before _they figured it out for themselves and pulled exactly this kind of stupid-ass stunt."

Alan took deep offense at being called stupid, but for the moment all he did was clench his fists and stare at the Persian rug. He knew for a fact that he'd landed himself in trouble, again; only question was, how deep? ...and how would he later get back at them all?

Scott waved John's statement aside, shaking his head.

"Father's actions are _not _on trial, here..."

"Neither are Gordon or Alan," John pointed out, sounding almost bored. "All I'm saying is that they did what kids will do, given that sort of window."

Scott, fists at his hips, eyes on the floor, nodded slowly.

"Point taken, John, but that doesn't lessen the sheer risky, dumb carelessness of..."

"Scott," Gordon interrupted suddenly, fighting to keep his voice steady. He hardly knew these men, his brothers (and 'Brains' not at all), but he had to put his bit in, anyway. "... it wasn't Alan's doin', really. I had questions about th' noises, an'..." He glanced over at Virgil, who looked downcast and doubtful, "...some things that were said, an' I kept on at him till he showed me th' hangar. I'm sorry. Truly. I didn' intend to cause such a bother."

Scott gazed at him, his stare direct and hard, but Gordon never wavered. He knew very well that with this one lie, he risked throwing away all the trust, the love and welcome he'd been shown over the last week... but Alan had borne more than enough trouble, for his sake. Time to return the favor.

Scott shifted his gaze to the youngest Tracy.

"Is that the truth?" He asked.

Alan didn't quite know what to say. That Gordon was a friend, he'd accepted; that his brother would step up to the plate like this, trying to help him out, the younger boy found utterly confusing... and undeserved. He took a deep breath, looked over at Gordon, then shook his head.

"No. It was me, Scott. I was stupid, and I dragged Gordon in, too. My bad."

Scott nodded, again. He'd thought as much. Before he could pronounce sentence, though, Virgil leaned forward, clearing his throat for attention.

"Scott..., cut 'em some slack, please," said the husky, dark-haired young man. "They were skylarking, and got caught. No real harm done, is there? Remember the time Grandma caught you and me with Grandad's cigarettes, behind the stables?"

"She tanned our hides," Scott reminded him, folding his arms upon his chest. "We could've set fire to the stable, and _you're _up to a pack a day. Even little things have repercussions, Virgil. I'm not going to sugar-coat what they did, or what could've happened. It was dangerous, it was stupid, and it was _wrong."_

Ordinarily, John would have grown tired of arguing by now, and wandered off with a _'whatever' _shrug. Not that he lacked will power, precisely, but he was long accustomed to letting Scott run things. Now, though, backed by Virgil, and with a new brother tossed into the mix, he stuck to his guns.

"Right. So, let's take a look at what happened, then. A couple of _kids _penetrated our defenses, Scott, getting close enough to Thunderbird 2 to have taken pictures, or launched a weapon, and then got out again. If they'd been enemy operatives, with a pick-up plan, we'd have been royally screwed. Maybe, instead of losing our heads, we should be grateful that it was only Gordon and Alan, and upgrade our damn security, starting with better scanning reports and some kind of ID chip tracking."

"A- and if I may, ah... may c- cut in, G- Gentlemen...?" Brains interrupted, glasses flashing reflected lamp-light as he looked around at the gathered others, "I w- would strongly recommend c- coming clean with the, ah... the boys, B- both of them. Whether th- they participate in missions or n- not, they need enough information to, ah... to defend themselves, and th- this organization, from the ignorance, c- curiosity or m- malice of others."

Scott looked from one determined face to another. Then, slowly, he relented.

"Okay. I've got no problem with the security ideas, and as far as opening up the files to the boys is concerned, cat's out of the bag and long over the horizon, anyhow." Turning to face his youngest brothers, he went on,

"Gordon, maybe I misjudged you. I know what I _wanted_ to believe... But, you're new, and you don't know what goes on around here, or why, so I'll try to explain. This _isn't _a game. We use illegal high technology and stolen information to sneak in under WorldGov's nose and save lives. Yeah..., we're breaking the law, violating borders and breaching security systems, risking our necks when someone's trapped with no other hope of rescue. It's what we do. And, yeah..., one of these days, very possibly, one of us is gonna get hurt in the line of duty, or captured. Maybe me, or John... or Virgil. I dunno. But that's a risk we've accepted, and that you'll have to accept, too, if you decide to come in on this. But, we sure as hell don't need to borrow trouble, pulling stupid crap like sneaking into a hangar!"

Having said his piece, Scott lifted his arms a bit, then let them drop to his sides, the gesture one of resignation.

"Yeah. I agree with John. We should have told you earlier, and I'm sorry we didn't. But, what I need to know now is; how well can you two keep a secret?"

Gordon looked over at his younger brother, then back at Scott.

"To th' grave," he said, meaning it. "Both of us. And if th' lot of you are putting your tails on th' line, we'll pin ours up right alongside."

Scott smiled, and the tension in the room, thick and cold as roadside slush thirty seconds before, melted entirely away. The eldest Tracy son, for so many years protector, disciplinarian and stern advisor to John and Virgil, relaxed just a bit.

"Good enough. We're together; almost a whole family, again, and now there aren't any more secrets. I can't help feeling that's a good thing. Alan's got a few years to go yet, but Gordon, I'll start training you on a few of the simulators first thing tomorrow. _And...,_ I'll take full responsibility for telling you two about the 'family business'. The rest of this, we keep to ourselves, understood? Father doesn't need the added stress."

There was agreement all around, everyone but Alan (short-changed again, in his opinion) satisfied with the outcome. They stood about for awhile, in pairs and threes, talking shop. Virgil even introduced Gordon to Brains, who was almost too shy to lift his gaze from the flow chart that John had sketched out.

At last, though, Alan grew restive. Catching Gordon's eye, he turned to go, playing it off like he didn't really care whether or not his friend came along.

It was relief and genuine gratitude that put the wide grin on his face when Gordon joined him out in the hall, grumbling,

"I s'pose, they'll be expectin' a damn permission form, next time we decide t' have a look around?"

Alan shrugged, his grin turning just a little wicked, again.

"They can _expect _whatever they want. I'm not filling out _nuthin'!"_

Meanwhile, watching Gordon depart with Alan, the three older Tracys experienced reactions ranging from thunderstruck (Virgil) to depressed (Scott). John shook his head, smiling wryly.

"Damn. _'Love me, love my dog',_ is it? Looks like you're going to have to lighten up on Alan, Scott."

"Sure," His older brother growled. "Just as soon as he stops subscribing to porn sites in my name."

"Could be worse," John shrugged, drifting off to rejoin Brains. "I somehow got registered for a 'Gay and Lesbian Retreat' back at Princeton. My former colleagues are a little confused."

"Ever tried smoking a cigarette that's been dipped in alum?" Virgil asked.

"S- super glue on the, ah... the lab stools," Brains recalled, wincing.

"You, too?" Scott inquired, genuinely shocked.

"Th- that is a young m -man with a great many unr- resolved anger issues." Brains replied, absently rubbing the seat of his pants.

"Issues..., stacked on problems... piled on challenges," Virgil sighed. "But it looks like he and Gordon 're a set, like it or not."

_Not,_ mostly... but they'd find a way to deal with it, just the same.

_Outdoors:_

Arriving with the sunset, someone else had come home. Kyrano made no announcement this time, as it was only his daughter, back from Tahiti... only a girl.

She came bounding up the path from the carport and across the twilit pool deck, flinging her dark blue school jacket aside and shouting,

"Bonjour, mon enfant! Which is, 'allo, little boy' for those lacking sophistication and wis..."

The girl trailed off, confused, as she saw, not just Alan, but Gordon, talking by the pool. Good manners kicked in at once, causing the girl to smile her sweetest, and turn expectantly to Alan for an introduction.

What Gordon saw quite snatched away his breath, killing all power of speech. She had large, slanted dark eyes, and skin as softly gold as an ivory carving. Her long, black hair, lively as wood smoke, shiny as volcanic glass, tumbled about her slender shoulders in mussed and swirling locks.

She was... he lacked the words, but whatever she was almost _hurt, _it struck him so powerfully. He'd have liked to say something clever, to bring out the secret mischief that sparkled just within her wide eyes, but all of a sudden, Gordon was painfully conscious of the facts; that he was short for his age, that his hair was _red, _and that he had a bloody great bump at the center of his nose.

Alan might have sensed his feelings, for he made a big show of draping an arm about the girl's shoulders, saying,

"Hey, TinTin! Welcome back. Oh... him? That's just Gordon, my brother. He's been out in Europe all this time, swimming, or something."

She extended a slim hand, smiling. After a moment of blank confusion, Gordon accepted and clasped the offered hand, then let go as swiftly as though her touch had burnt him.

"How pleasant to finally meet you, Gordon!" TinTin was saying, trying out some of her best, recently acquired, 'company airs'. "Alan has spoken of you so... frequently."

"_Old news!"_ Alan cut in hurriedly, evidently anxious that she not tell his brother what, exactly, he'd said. (Though Gordon could well imagine.) Changing the subject whip-lash quick, the younger boy gestured toward the pool, glowing softly beside them with dozens of underwater lights.

"Hey, I got an idea! Hurry up and change, you guys, 'cause we still got time enough for a dip before grandma, like, chases us up to our rooms for the night. Come on!"

It sounded like a decent enough plan, so they headed back in. Alan's rooms, like John's, were kept neat and ready for immediate occupancy by Kyrano and a host of robotic appliances. All he really needed to bring to the island was himself. TinTin had a second, 'vacation wardrobe', as well. Gordon was the only one living out of a suitcase. Nearly a week after arriving, he still hadn't really unpacked.

The luxurious suite of rooms he'd been assigned contained depressing quantities of big, expensive furniture, the half-finished novel Jeff had given him, and the duffle bag (jammed full with clothes, a framed picture of his mum and dad... and one out-of-place blue teddy bear, close to the top). His emotions were equally shoved away, too difficult and confusing to bear examination. Maybe tomorrow, he'd decide what he felt about all this. Or the day after.

In the meantime, Gordon did the easy thing, and just got changed, pulling a short 'fast skin' racing suit out of the duffle bag (closest thing to a recreational swimming suit that he owned). Then, going to his suite's marble bathroom, he hunted about for a suitable towel, but each seemed more posh and ornately monogrammed than the last.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a musical voice behind him said, laughingly,

"Gordon, whatever is _taking _so long? You don't need to bring one of these; there are pool towels by the sauna!"

Whipping around to face TinTin, the boy mumbled,

"Right. Sorry... didn' realize there was more than one sort of towel."

She cocked her head to one side, her smile losing a bit of its sparkle.

"Don't worry. You'll get accustomed to all this in no time, and then you'll forget that life ever came with plastic cups and powdered milk."

"Have _you?"_ He asked, at once ashamed of his gaffe, and glad that he'd found someone to compare notes with. They'd something in common, it seemed.

TinTin gave him a rueful little grimace, shaking her head.

"It's not the same for me. My father is Chef here, and gardener... not Jeff Tracy. I can't afford to become too comfortable with such things. For me, they're only borrowed."

Then she smiled again, quick and volatile as the shifting colors on a peacock feather, and every bit as pretty.

"...and if we don't hurry along, Alan will explode all over the pool deck. Think of the mess my poor, hard-working papa will be forced to clean up, and take pity!"

And then, just as comfortably as if she'd known him for years, the lass reached out and linked her arm with his, drawing him out of the bathroom and back through 'Balmoral'.

They were halfway to his bedroom door when, with a female's unerring instinct for plush toys, TinTin caught sight of the blue teddy bear, and pounced, scooping it off the floor.

"Oohhhhh...! Look at him! _How adorable!"_ She pressed the thing to her right shoulder, patting its fuzzy back like a baby's. "Was he a present? What's his name?"

That was a bit of a poser. For all Gordon cared, the bit of azure fluff could have remained nameless throughout eternity. But she was hanging on his response, her little half-smile all soft and expectant, and he had to say _something, _so...

"David," he replied, for want of anything more creative. And then, as she began kissing the bear's nose, "You c'n have it, if you'd like."

TinTin looked up, eyes widening.

"_Really?_ You're serious?"

He shrugged, as if it truly didn't matter. She made an excited little noise, skipped up like a little girl, and kissed his cheek.

"Gordon Tracy, you are _so _sweet! I'll just go put him away, and then I'll be out directly, promise!"

And with that, TinTin darted off, the bear hugged tight to her chest. Filled with something too big and strange to name, Gordon watched her go.


End file.
